Thomas aimed the barrel of the AK up the ridge, seeking out their hiding places. Movement came from a thicket and he squeezed the trigger gently, a burst of fire ripping out from the rifle’s barrel.
The movement stopped.
His eyes scanned the landscape carefully, looking for further threats. Three bodies were in sight. Another perhaps lay dead in the scrub.
That left one. Thomas hit the magazine release and checked on his ammunition supply. Seven rounds remaining. It would have to be enough.
He looked over and saw Estere laying there prone on the hill, a Tokarev pistol clutched in both hands, her eyes focused intently up the slope.
Then he saw it, a betraying movement out of the corner of his eye. A hand reaching for a discarded Kalishnikov about ten meters to his right.
Thomas held his breath, shifting the AK carefully to his shoulder. The man had learned caution, and was crawling forward on his belly, Thomas judged, unable to see anything but the hand.
Time itself seemed to slow down as the man shifted forward. He had almost reached his rifle when he put his head up to look.
Thomas squeezed the trigger twice, sending two 7.62mm bullets crashing through the man’s brain.
Target down. He felt the tension drain from his body and realized suddenly that the palms of his hands were slick with sweat. He didn’t remember being that nervous in years.
Silence. It hit him suddenly, that all the firing, even from below in the camp, had ceased. Estere rose and walked over to where one of the Iranian soldiers lay moaning, his legs nearly torn off by the grenade blast.
She aimed the Tokarev down and pulled the trigger once. The moaning stopped suddenly.
“Estere!” Thomas turned to see Sirvan appear from below, at the head of his fighters, his clothing stained with blood. He swept his sister into his arms, embracing her fiercely.
For a long moment, Thomas stood there, awkwardly, his hands still gripping the nearly-empty AK. Then Sirvan glanced at him over his sister’s shoulder and mouthed a single word.
Thanks.
5:30 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
A light rain was falling as Director Lay’s car wound its way through the network of checkpoints stretching into the bowels of the parking garage. It was shaping up to be an ugly day, not to mention the weather.
The sight of Ron Carter standing next to his parking space did little to lighten his mood. “What’s going wrong now, Ron?” Director Lay snapped, exiting the limousine as his bodyguard opened the door for him.
“I’ve got something you need to see, sir.”
“Don’t you always?” Lay asked, regretting the sarcasm moments after it left his lips. When Carter failed to rise at the sally, the DCIA sighed. “My office or yours?”
“Yours, sir.”
Lay nodded to his bodyguard as they entered the elevator. “Take us up, Pete.”
Not another word was spoken between the two men until the door of Lay’s office closed behind them. “Coffee?” Lay offered.
“No thanks, boss. Any more caffeine in my system and something’s bound to go haywire.”
“Late night?”
“Didn’t go home,” was the succinct reply. “We got this about four hours ago.”
Lay accepted the thick folder, taking a seat behind his desk. “What is it?”
“A report from Dr. Maria Schuyler, over at Bethesda.”
“She’s running their bio-weapons research department, right?” Lay asked, his brow furrowing. “What does she want with us?”
“If you will recall, boss, we had the boys at Intel send over those pictures of the cadaver from the field team. It would appear as though that fell within her purview.”
“The pictures were scrubbed of background data, I trust?”
“Of course, sir. We got another memo from her at 0400, demanding to know where they were taken.”
“Great,” Lay murmured. He was suffering from the beginnings of a headache, and from the looks of the day, it was only going to get worse. “And we replied?”
“We haven’t. I figured you’d better take a look at her data before formulating a response.”
The DCIA opened the folder with a half-hearted gesture. “What did she conclude?”
“That’s something I think you should read for yourself, sir.”
By the time he had finished fifteen minutes later, the blood had largely drained from Lay’s face. His fingers trembled as he tucked the last sheet back into the folder. Outside the window, the rain continued to fall unabated.
“Did you have the Intelligence Directorate run her figures?”
The analyst nodded wordlessly.
Lay pursed his lips together, still staring out the window. “Dear God, they’ve opened Pandora’s grave…”
7:45 A.M.
Dulles International Airport
Virginia
The movies never show you losing your luggage, Harry thought, suppressing an amused smile at the irony of it all. No indeed, the movies never showed the mundane truth of the spy business, and he found that mildly funny. No trace of his humor escaped onto his face, however. He wasn’t a spy. He wasn’t Harry Nichols. He was Todd Winters-average Joe Citizen-and mad as the devil over losing his luggage.
That the aforementioned luggage consisted of a teddy bear for a child he didn’t have, Swiss chocolates for a wife he had never seen, and paperwork for a company he had never worked for was largely extraneous. The average businessman would raise Cain over losing them, and so that was the part he had been assigned to play.
All the world’s a stage. A sharp buzz jabbed at his ribs as his cellphone went off. “Winters speaking.”
It was Hamid’s voice. “Hey, Todd! You just make it in, bro?”
“Yeah, I’m still at the airport. The turkeys over here lost my luggage.”
“Well, hurry on down just as soon as you can. Grandma’s put on the roast in celebration of your return.”
The rest of the team had left the terminal without drawing untoward attention to themselves. Time to exit, stage right.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a uniformed man headed toward him, a suitcase in one hand and an oversized, stupid-looking stuffed bear in the other.
“Here you go, Mr. Winters. Somehow they got sent to the opposite end of the terminal by mistake.”
Harry snarled something appropriately ungracious under his breath and stalked off, the very picture of a weary, haggard businessman just off the red-eye, balancing the bear and suitcase with practiced clumsiness.
It was raining outside, a slow miserable drizzle as he wound his way toward the Agency car. Harry slid inside, tossing the bear carelessly onto the seat between himself and Davood. Hamid glanced back from the driver’s seat, a grin splitting his face. “Why if it isn’t Goldilocks and the baby bear!”
Harry leaned back against the seat of the car and shot a murderous look at his friend. “Just shut up and drive.”
As they pulled onto Dulles Airport Road, another car, nearly obscured by the rain, swung out to follow them…
2:56 P.M. Local Time
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel
Shoham turned away from the monitor with a look of sadness in his eyes. “He’s not eating.”
The general’s words had been a statement, rather than a question, but his aide answered anyway. “No, sir.”
“What are we getting from Langley?” Shoham asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the image of Moshe Tal on monitor.
“Officially or unofficially?”
“Unofficially, of course,” the Mossad chief clarified, irritation creeping into his tones. “What are our sources telling us?”